Feeding Between the Lines
by Buffonia
Summary: Spike/Dawn- twisted friendship


Title: "Feeding Between the Lines"  
  
Author: Buffonia  
  
E-mail: Buffonia@hotmail.com  
  
Pairing: Spike/Dawn (twisted friendship)  
  
Rating: R (for violence and language)  
  
Summary: Takes place during the summer between season 5 and season 6, Dawn's darker side takes over after Buffy's death.  
  
Feedback: On my knees for it. (gutterface)  
  
Distribution: my site- http://www.angelfire.com/ego/buffdom Anyone else -want, take, have. Just tell me where.  
  
Disclaimer: All Joss, me none  
  
Thanks: My love to Love, who beta'd her booty off for me ;)  
  
* * *  
  
One might call it a waste of a day, but what else is a bloke like him to do? Every day was a waste. What would he have to do for his day to not be a waste, a waiting period, a watching of the seconds? He didn't move off the rickety chair all bloody day. Blood? Nope, not even for that. Not a drop, not a smoke, not even a trip to the tunnels to beat the shit of some nameless demon.  
  
The only movement that he gave in to was the slight shaking of his head every now and then. Disagreeing with an imaginary whisper, some thought or idea. Every day was a waste, *he* was a fucking waste.  
  
//Duck as an arm grazes overhead. Jump, missing the tail. Kick to the shoulder. Grab the knife and run the blade across its neck, loosening the demon flesh. Enough to break the bone.//  
  
The vampire came out of his reverie only to note that the light that fell on the floor was now a sliver. Only when he had to relax his hands in order to get up from the chair, did he realize how he had clawed on to the arm. His knuckles were white, well, whiter, and there were marks where his nails had bit into the fabric.  
  
He stepped out into the cemetery and, without hesitation, headed over the graves. Clearing headstones and meandering around statues, trying to keep to the straightest line possible. His boots followed just inches behind the line of shadow that pushed forth the retreating sunset. It led him straight to the front porch.  
  
Spike imagined a hand would be on the doorknob almost before the anticipated knock rang out. They all knew it only took him a moment or two after the sun set to step out of his crypt. Minus however many seconds locating a pack of smokes demanded.  
  
When the door opened, Spike ritually discarded his  
  
gonna-be-sittin-the-little-bit-all-night cig before entering silently. Xander stood there,  
  
Anya at his side, holding one of his large hands in her two smaller ones and idly playing with his fingers. Her expression looked dull. Not bored, just a sad kind of dull.  
  
"Thought Red had the day shift on Tuesdays," he mumbled indifferently.  
  
Xander shrugged. "Her and Tara are still packing up their stuff. Well, Tara's packing.  
  
I think Will is repairing the Buf---the robot. She's re-heading the bot tonight."  
  
A nod to the whelp. A half wave to the ex-demon. Shut the door behind them and stand at the foot of the stairs. Waiting. Pointlessly he knew, but, hell, what are routines but the pointless carrying out of activities?  
  
"Dawn!"  
  
Silence.  
  
"Da-awn!"  
  
A shuffle of movement, but no reply.  
  
"LITTLE BIT?"  
  
"What?" It was a weak voice with a sharp tone, but it was a response. It was progress.  
  
"You hungry?" he called back up, quieter this time. This wasn't about volume, it was about the words.  
  
"Stop asking stupid questions, Spike."  
  
He sighed. He knew it was a stupid question, she hadn't eaten in days. And he knew she wasn't hungry.  
  
"Wanna watch a bit of telly then?"  
  
There was no reply, just another shuffle of movement.  
  
He rolled his eyes and moved to the living room. Plopping down on the couch, Spike stared at the blank screen. His hand was loose as he held the remote, thumb resting carelessly on the 'power' button. The empty couch stared back from the reflection in the glass television.  
  
Door opening up stairs. Bathroom door closing. Water draining through pipes.  
  
Open. Close. Footsteps from her bedroom.  
  
He sat there for a while. Watching nothing. Listening for something. Seeing many, many things.  
  
//A dodge to the left. Duck. Forearm meeting a wrist. A knife falling several hundred  
  
feet instead of a bleached vampire//  
  
A pathetic bleached vampire that can't keep one fucking promise. A monster with a mid-unlife crisis. Why was he still here? Stupid questions.  
  
No sounds. A quick glance at the clock told him it was only 10:27. She wouldn't be asleep. He got off the sofa and made for the stairs again. After each step, there was a pause until he was on the landing. Right outside her door.  
  
"Dawn?"  
  
"Little Bit?"  
  
Something tingled in his dead nerves. He knocked. He banged. He threw the door open.  
  
The curtain was waving the in the breeze from the open window.  
  
"Bloody hell!" he let out an exasperated growl.  
  
* * *  
  
The broken boards pressed into her legs. Indenting the flesh with jagged patterns. But it wasn't like she could move any of it. Not like she could kneel elsewhere. As if a few splinters in her legs would make a difference anyways.  
  
Metal scraps and cement blocks littered the make-shift altar. The spot that couldn't house a crude chalk outline because, legally, no one had died there. She hated that she had to deny herself proper mourning just so that the world would be a safer place. She didn't care much about the world anymore.  
  
Didn't care much for being part of something that always demanded prices and penalties.  
  
Always demanded blood. Let little girls bleed. Allowed such gratuitous death. Craved it even.  
  
* * *  
  
This was bad. They were actually trusting him enough to take the night shift and he went and lost the Bit. He couldn't lose her. Couldn't let anything happen to her. He followed her, like a bloodhound, sniffing her trackless path.  
  
There was something about where it seemed to be leading that bothered him. Something about how strong he could smell her scent, but not a trace of fear. A little girl unafraid was a little girl off her guard and out of her depth. He quickened his pace, knowing that bad timing was one of the many curses of this cursed town.  
  
* * *  
  
Dawn wondered how long it would take him. For her caretaker, her watcher, to seek her out. She figured he was close by now. Spike may have been preoccupied but he would never let her get too far away.  
  
And then there was a whisper of sound behind her and she knew he was standing there. Yet she kept her face cast downwards to the spot that had broken her sister. Broken her fall. Spike stirred but kept silent. Maybe because he was lost for words or perhaps because he respected her need to do this.  
  
Finally, he spoke. "It's late, pet, let's go."  
  
"I'm not done here."  
  
"Yes you are. We all are."  
  
"Like you never come back," she muttered bitterly to the ground. "Like you never come back here every night."  
  
"I'm with you every night. At your house--"  
  
Finally she craned her neck to face him. Her eyes were filled with accusations. "It doesn't matter where you are Spike. You're always here, with her."  
  
//A dodge to the right. Kick the shins. Duck. Grab the tail. Watch the little demon bastard fall a few hundred feet, chasing his knife.//  
  
"We're going now, Dawn," his voice was low.  
  
"No," she turned back to the empty space before her that cradled the imaginary corpse of her sister. "I'm not finished."  
  
"Oh yes, you bloody well are," he growled. If she wanted to see who had the biggest pair, he'd damn well show her. Spike grabbed her elbow and attempted to haul her to her feet.  
  
He didn't see her reach for the plank. Didn't feel the two by four split the air until it met his face. The startling impact caused him to lose his grip on her arm and stumble back. It took Spike a blink or two before his vision cleared and he got a glimpse of the ironically larger Summers girl, shaking with rage and clinging to the wooden weapon.  
  
A trickle of red obscured the view from his left eye and he reached up to wipe away the few drops of blood. He chuckled in childish retaliation. It wasn't Spike's intention to use clever reverse psychology. It was just instinct. And it pissed Dawn off even more.  
  
She took the few necessary steps needed to get in range. Spike didn't even try to stop her. The board crashed down on his head and he fell to his knees. Another amused noise escaped his throat, but he could have sworn he intended to keep that one in.  
  
"Got it all out then? Feeling better?" he mused.  
  
"A little," she said with just a touch of sarcasm. "But I'd rather feel a lot better."  
  
The plank slammed into the back of his skull again and he slumped to the ground.  
  
Now it wasn't funny, now he had a headache.  
  
Dawn stood over him, waiting for him to move. He pushed himself up and she was a little taken aback to find herself facing his demon. She wasn't familiar with Spike's vampyric visage. It made her feel less safe, as if she should have Spike there to protect her from it. He bent in towards her, she took in the sharpness of his teeth for a moment and then raised her eyes to his. Quirking a brow she dropped the board.  
  
"Sorry, my bad, I thought you liked it rough." She tilted her head to the side, not letting any change of demeanor show on her still babyish face. It irked him; the nonchalant sarcasm, the casual violence. The way she was treating him like a punching bag. He didn't hate it, but it irked him.  
  
"Not from little girls, luv," he snorted, looking her up and down before his demon subsided back into his beautiful, human features. "Stop trying to be her, it's not impressive. It's sick."  
  
"Isn't that what I am?" She narrowed her eyes. "Just a 'little bit' of Buffy?"  
  
He gave her an incredulous look, as if to say she were wrong. He really wanted her to shut up.  
  
Dawn knew she had him. "Why do you take such care of me, Spike?"  
  
"I made a promise." It was his mantra.  
  
"Is that what you tell yourself?" Her tone was harmless, but there were dangerous sparks in her wide eyes. "Maybe you're right. Or maybe I'm the only part of her you have left to save. I'm the consolation prize."  
  
"Prizes are for winners, Bit. We all lost that day."  
  
Dawn winced and her face seemed to soften slightly. "Then I guess that makes me the souvenir. The reminder and the reason why she's gone." She paused and looked intently at the ground again. "You must hate me sometimes. I do."  
  
"I care about you more often," he consoled her. "It wasn't your fault."  
  
"Right," came Dawn sardonically. "It wasn't anyone's fault. We tried our very best and we're both very good, brave people. Oh wait, we're not people at all. We're just really great impersonators."  
  
"I thought you got over that 'I'm not human' phase," he shrugged.  
  
"I used to be freaked because I wanted to be real. I wanted to have a real life. Now  
  
I don't want a life at all. She left me, Spike. Now everyone I loved most in the world is dead. Including you." Dawn stared at him and her eyelids fluttered weakly as if she wanted to close them, but couldn't. "I want to be dead too."  
  
Spike peered at her suspiciously. How did she get so much older in just a week? He figured it was being so near Death. His close proximity. You either dance with Death or stay the hell away from him. You certainly don't just sit there with the bloke, having him stare at you, mock you.  
  
"Ever since the portal accepted her, when we realized how much of her was in me, didn't it make you wonder?" She paused and he tilted his head to the side. "If you could bite me and taste her?"  
  
"You want to die now then you climb to the top of that tower and jump. I won't entertain your little dream. I don't like to be part of crazy suicide fantasies. Makes me feel cheap."  
  
Dawn couldn't be discouraged. "Jump? I don't want be dead in pieces, Spike, I want to be like you."  
  
Spike shook his head slowly. "I don't know what you think you are. But *I* know.  
  
You're a sad little girl. And my chip knows that too. I can't hurt you." He cursed himself inwardly; he was sure that he'd meant to say 'won't.'  
  
"You could try," Dawn reasoned. "Just a sample. Just a little. It wouldn't hurt to try."  
  
"Oh, trust me, it would hurt a lot," he warned. "Besides I don't know if I could stop after I started. I'm not exactly the poster child of willpower." He paused, and some choked laughter rang out from him. Her manipulative skills were borderline admirable. "You're like a bleedin' door to door salesman. Offer me a free sample so that I'll buy all the goods."  
  
"I-I could make it easy for you," she offered, almost desperately, and rolled up her sleeve. He closed his eyes in disgust at the numerous fine, red lines on her arm.  
  
Delicate stripes stacked from the wrist to the crease of her elbow.  
  
"Don't." It was an order. He was losing his temper, losing control.  
  
Disobediently, she picked at the newest scab. Peeling away the fresh crust of skin.  
  
And the blood rose to the surface, trickling small red tears to her fingers. She held it out, volunteering more than even she was aware of.  
  
She was ready. She had toughened herself up for this. There wasn't much to do in her room except listen to music and cut her skin. She watched her 'precious' blood paint crude designs on her arm. It looked how blood was supposed to look; red and shiny with a taste like metal, as if it had absorbed some of the blade's flavour. It didn't seem very precious, like it could open up hell. Destroy humanity. Destroy her sister.  
  
It was funny, in a peculiar sort of way. Getting bitten by a vampire used to be her biggest fear. She remembered the multiple times Buffy had worn turtlenecks or scarves for weeks at a time. She remembered when Angel, well Angelus, almost killed her. But his teeth had only tickled her throat before Buffy had come to the rescue. Dawn didn't really expect this to feel very tickle-like but she could handle it. Couldn't she?  
  
"Drink," she pleaded. He had to say yes. He had to. He couldn't leave her. He was the only one she had left. The others always hurried out the door or looked away. They didn't understand, not like Spike did. Even if Buffy was right, and her soul would go to heaven while a demon would wear her face, that meant she'd be with Buffy and her mom forever. And if Buffy was wrong, then she'd at least have Spike forever. It was a win-win situation, it had to be right.  
  
Dawn noted the indecision on his face, how he stared at the slash as it poured out, what he must have considered to be, a delicacy. She continued, "It's the blood of a key. Of a slayer."  
  
The smell of blood as it mingled with the night and the salt on her palm hit him.  
  
Her arm was only inches away from his mouth. Absentmindedly, his lips parted, and he reached out for it. His fingertips grazed her forearm, and she closed her eyes resolutely.  
  
"It's Buffy's," her voice was a whisper, obviously thinking this to be clincher of her argument.  
  
//Step backwards, out of reach, block the punch. Low kick. Grab the knife as it slipped from the little bugger's hand and shove it through his head. Toss him off the platform like a penny.//  
  
That was all he needed to hear. His hand firmly closed over the delicate bones of her wrist and he jerked her forward. Her eyes went wide in surprise as he brought her small face to his.  
  
"Your right about one thing Dawn," he said. "You are all that's left of Buffy. And I think we've lost her enough, don't you? Personally, I don't want to be responsible for losing her again."  
  
She searched him for a moment, as if the words took a moment to reach her. Before they sunk in and travelled through her veins and hit her brain. What she was asking, not just of herself, but of Spike. Her face scrunched up, squeezing out tears.  
  
Dawn collapsed against his chest and she sobbed into the black cotton, throwing her arms around his neck. Spike scooped her into his arms to carry her home.  
  
* * *  
  
Spike put Dawn to bed and stood for a few moments in the hallway. He glanced to the right. To the closed door. He had told himself he wouldn't go in there. That he wouldn't even look inside. Not even think about it. But he found himself gripping the knob and pausing in the doorway.  
  
The room was arranged as it had been when he had snuck in there to steal loose articles of clothing, undergarments, anything he could find. It looked like she was out on patrol and would be returning shortly. He went and sat on the bed, and stared at his hands.  
  
//Just run, head on into it. Grab it around the waist and pull it off the tower. Kick its arse when you got to the ground.//  
  
He noticed the few flecks of Dawn's blood that had nestled on his palm from when he held her. Blinking at the red spots as if trying to solve a riddle. He sighed and got off the bed finally, closed Buffy's bedroom door behind him; and crossed the hall to the bathroom so he could wash his hands.  
  
~END~  
  
* * *  
  
My fic: http://www.angelfire.com/ego/buffdom 


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